


The Boy with the Rose in his Hair

by FlareWarrior



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Blood, Four Pairings Four Fairy Tales Challenge, M/M, Magic, Mary Dies, Roses, Those last two warnings aren't related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlareWarrior/pseuds/FlareWarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Prince John and the black rose, Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy with the Rose in his Hair

**Author's Note:**

> I gave myself the challenge of abridging four little-known fairy tales with four different slash pairings. This is the first one, based off of 'The Maiden with the Rose on her Forehead'.

Prince John spends most of his youth, when not learning to rule, tending the forgotten briar patch by the King's window. By the time he's thirteen, the once overgrown and twisted brambles have transformed into the most beautiful garden in the land; a riot of crimson red and bubblegum pink and sunset orange and butter cream yellow and fresh snow white and every color between; in varieties of tea and floribunda and cabbage and many, many more; climbing up trellises and budding on trees and peppering bushes. None were as beautiful, or as treasured by John, however, as the singular black rose that bloomed at the very heart of the garden. He'd stumbled across it when he was ten, picking his way through an uncooperative rose shrub. A single dark bud in what he'd assumed was an untamed thicket. The shrub had eventually given in, but the thicket was untameable. It grew wildly and John couldn't bring himself to mind, despite his meticulous grooming of all the surrounding plants.

When John is fourteen, he is called to war.

His father was remarried not two months prior, and while he felt asking his new step-sister to tend his roses was a bit discourteous, he could not leave them to the selfsame gardener who had neglected them for so many years. She agrees, bless her, and John leaves for war content that his roses will survive even if he may not. He is gone for many months, leading charges and crawling through muddy trenches, and the princess tends his garden faithfully.

Then one day, she hears a voice from the center of the garden. Curious, the princess walks deeper to see who is there.

"...hn"

The voice whispers as she moves closer, to the heart of the garden and the black rose.

"Who is that?" she asks of the voice.

It does not answer, rather whispers: 'Where is John?'

"Prince John has gone to war" She replies. "Who asks?"

'War...' the voice continues 'I have heard the vines speak of it. When will he return?'

"When the war has ended, should he live. Who are the Vines?"

'John may not survive?'

The princess, agitated by the lack of answers, simply says "Correct."

There is quiet in the garden once more and, fed up, the princess turns to leave.

'Wait. Come closer,' the voice interrupts her departure.

"I do not know where you are, sir, so I cannot," she replies.

'I am here, before your eyes. Come, give me your hand.'

The princess looks about, but sees only the black rose, so eerie to her sensibilities, yet somehow beautiful.

"I see no one."

'Here, Princess, in the bushes.'

The princess steps closer to the rose, reaching out to move the brambles aside and peer through them. She catches her palm on a thorn as she does so, seeing no one still.

"You must be invisible, sir, as I cannot find you. I have many things to do, so I'm afraid I must bid you good day," she says, and with that she leaves.

Before the week is out, the black rose dies.

At the end of two, the princess falls pregnant.

In the absence of the princess' husband, the princess' mother admonishes her daughter and demands to know who the father is, but the princess insists there was no one. The princess grows riper by the day, and finally, on an evening in mid winter, a baby boy is born.

He has a head full of stunning black hair and blue, blue eyes - and a black rose bud sprouted above his right ear.

Distressed, the princess wails at the sight "It was the black rose! It has lain a curse upon my family!"

In her hysteria she grabs the scissors used to cut the umbilical cord and lops the rose off. The child screams once as blood spills from the wound and then falls into a deep sleep. Anguished, the princess takes to bed, and it is a fortnight later that the cries of her child draw her from her chambers. The boy has awoken, a miracle which the mystics say cannot be repeated, and once the bandages are removed, they find that the black rose bud has grown back.

Her husband is wounded in the war, and when he returns home to see the little boy with the rose in his hair he has no choice but to believe his wife's tale. The boy grows, blue eyes brightening with knowledge beyond his years. His mother, unwilling to risk his life further, hides his rose with hats of all kinds.

"Now Sherlock," as the boy was so named "You must never take off your hat when others can see you," she says.

The little boy nods "Yes mother."

For five years the war drags on, until weary and hardened, the men return victorious. John's homecoming is joyous and heartbreaking, as he is bedridden from wounds he's sustained in the last days of the fighting. When the princess comes to see him, he asks of his garden and his precious rose.

"Tell me, sister, what has become to my roses?" he says, voice weak and body weaker.

"Your roses are healthy, my prince," she says.

"And what of the black rose, my lady?" he continues.

Fearing for the prince's health should he learn the truth, the princess tells a small lie "It has bloomed beautifully every summer since your departure."

"Ah," the prince says, looking stronger "that is good news."

His strength lasts only so long. A short time later he takes a turn for the worse, and the maids are preparing the black drapes as little Sherlock walks by unnoticed into Prince John's room.

"Who is there?" John asks quietly when he hears the sound of someone in his room.

"Sherlock," the young boy answers.

John summons his strength to look at the child "You should leave, child, for I am going to die soon."

Sherlock doesn't listen, opting instead to perch beside John on the bed.

"You can't die. I won't let you," the boy states, and John scoffs.

"If only it were so simple." But again, the child isn't listening. John fades off to sleep as the boy digs into his pockets, only waking again when Sherlock’s hands pull at his bandages.

"Don't, child," he says, but in his weakened state he can do nothing to prevent Sherlock from removing the bandages and pressing something green to his wounds. John hisses as it starts to burn.

"What is that?" he asks.

"Moss and bread mold" the child replies "Sleep."

John is helpless but to comply. His step-sister visits some time later to find Sherlock asleep beside the prince, hat lost in the sheets and rose perched openly on his head. Distressed that the sight might kill her brother, she hauls Sherlock away in a rage.

"What were you thinking, boy?! He will think I've plucked it!" she cries "He will die of grief before his wounds take him!"

"I didn't show him mother! I didn't!" Sherlock insists.

"He must know! It must be why he is dying! I must show him his rose is well!"

And in her grief, she takes her letter knife and lops off the rose once again.

Sherlock collapses to the floor with a shriek, and then falls silent.

"Oh Sherlock!" the princess sobs, the rose in her palm dripping blood into the pool of it spreading on the floor. "My poor Sherlock!"

Believing the boy is dead; she carries him up to the highest tower in the castle and sets him gently among the store of books it contains. She locks the door when she leaves, and never opens it again.

She returns to the garden with the rose and ties it to the withered plant with a thread from her dress while she sobs.

"Dear John, please wake up and see how your rose has bloomed," she says when she visits him again. His complexion is flush with life once more, and the princess can only assume her fears were correct. When he has the strength, he goes to his window and sees the black rose glinting with dew in the light from the sunrise.

"Dear sister, the plant looks ill," he says.

"It took ill when you did, my prince," she responds. "Nothing I do seems to heal it."

"I see," John replies. "I shall tend to it myself soon. What of the boy who was here some time ago?"

The princess grows silent "There are no children in the castle, my prince, as Mycroft is at court with his father."

"Then he must have been the child of a servant. Bright lad, that. Stunning eyes. Who might he-"

"You were feverish and on the verge of death," the princess insists "There have been no servants' children here since your return. You must have been seeing things."

John quiets, unsure. "I see. Too bad, then, I quite liked him."

The princess scoffs "You should not profess such of people conjured in your mind. You could be mistaken for a madman."

But when she leaves, she cries. A crow steals the thread holding the rose to the thicket, and while John fights valiantly, he cannot bring the plant to life again. The princess tells her husband little of Sherlock's death and insists that it be kept from John. Sometimes, when John tends the garden, he thinks he sees a silhouette in the old window of the highest tower.

Many years pass, and John takes a wife. She is kind and beautiful, though her faithful servant is cunning and suspicious. Neither are by his side when his step-sister dies, nor do they see the woman pass him a key.

"This is the key to the tallest tower," she says, urgent under the press of death "You must never enter it, my brother."

They are the last words she says.

The prince respects her wish, though Mary, his wife, grows curious about the key and the one locked room in the castle. She falls ill three years into their marriage, and one morning she decides she has little to lose by seeing what is hidden there for herself. The key fits the lock perfectly, and with the servant's help she manages to open the rusted door. Inside on the ledge of the window, they find a young man reading contentedly. He looks up after a moment, and their eyes catch on the black rose blooming in his hair.

"'tis a pleasure boy, my lady! Your lord is unfaithful!" the servant hisses in her ear.

"Nonsense, John would do no such thing," Mary whispers back.

The young man in the window appears to be appraising them, blue eyes sharp.

"John's wife. Sick in the lungs, are you not? And the ambitious servant," he states.

Mary's eyebrows draw together "I am Mary, sir. But may I ask who you are?"

"I am Sherlock," he responds.

"You poor dear. You look famished, might you like to come down for a bite to eat?" Mary asks impulsively.

"Mary!" Her servant implores "You mustn't!"

"He doesn't seem so bad," Mary persists.

"And what of your husband? He keeps this boy here. If you insist on bringing this man down, he must be in disguise, lest he be recognized."

"John does not know me, or rather, he knows only my name," Sherlock says.

"And how does one know a person’s name and not their face when they keep them locked in a tower?" the servant asks.

"John did not-"

"Do not believe what he says, madam, for he will lie if he is what I think him to be. He should be disguised either way."

Mary concedes, and Sherlock allows himself to be magicked to satiate their fears. They cast him to look plain and place a cravat on his head as a final touch to cover the rose, which even the strong magic of Mary's servant could not hide, and bring him down from the tower. They introduce him as their new servant, and when John comes home they tell him of his hiring.

"Just until I am strong enough to tell him what I have done," Mary says.

But Mary never regains her strength. She passes peacefully under her husband's care, and John is left vulnerable in his mourning. Sherlock comes to sit with him often, and surprises John with the intellect he gained from the store of books in the tower - and possibly more so with his bizarre personality. More often than not, he finds John sighing in exasperation with him as the tension in his shoulders eases; and in time they become friends.

"I had a rose once," John says to him. "Black as night. It bloomed in the garden outside. It was nigh impossible to tend, but lovely. You remind me a bit of that," he smiles, but it fades too quickly. Sometimes, he talks about Mary. Talks about her kind heart, her adventurous spirit.

Sometimes, they are joined by Mary's servant.

Sherlock will turn thorny then, sending barbs toward the woman who has yet to release him from her magic. She wants John, but only for the throne. Sherlock begins to devise a plan to remove her from the castle - but he is too late, the workings of the court swifter than he'd thought, and John takes her as his fiancée before he can bring his plan to fruition. Sherlock is desperate, and John seems to sense his distress.

"Holmes" John calls one day, as that is the name he is known by "There is a carnival in town. Would you like to go with me?"

And Sherlock, in the hopes of finding a magic shop to dispel the curse upon his features, agrees. Once they arrive it doesn't take long for Sherlock to find the kind of shop he is looking for, and he slips away to speak with the shop owner.

"What can I do ye for?" the wizened man at the stall asks.

"I am cursed, as I had hoped you would be able to tell. I need wormwood and faery powder to break it."

The old man squints at him "Ye more than bespelled, boy, ye aint human. I won't sell to no fae."

"Holmes!" John says from beside him "Here you are. Interested in magic, are you? I suppose I ought to have known. Is there anything you'd like?"

"No," Sherlock says shortly, tugging his cravat down a bit.

"You're going to start being shy _now_ , Holmes? Come on, tell me."

Sherlock's eyes settle on a pendant that dangles from a post holding up the stall's awning. It's in the shape of a tiny human skull, with a sparkle he's not sure others can see-yes! It's glossed in faery powder. John sees him looking and raises an eyebrow.

"Really? Don't you think it's a bit morbid?"

"Nonsense, John, I quite like it," he replies quickly. It's not a lie; the pendant is quite close to the actual dimensions of the human skull and has a certain charm to it.

John sighs "Of course you do," and moves to purchase it. Sherlock shoplifts a bit of wormwood while the stall owner's back is turned, and he and John move on. Sherlock dangles the pendant in front of his face, absently calculating the amount of faery powder in the gloss and if it would be enough.

"I'm going to find something to eat," John announces, and darts off into the bustle of people suddenly, leaving Sherlock to his own devices.He spots a bench nearby and goes to it, then sets about scraping off enough of the gloss to dispel the magic on himself with. He works quickly and starts kneading the gloss into the wormwood in short order, lazily dangling the pendant in front of his face with his free hand. It's a bit hypnotic, and Sherlock begins to think on the coming marriage. Even if he manages to free himself of the spell, there is no guarantee that John will believe his tale of roses and magic and plotting servants. In truth, since he has aged and John was nearly delirious at the time, there is little chance John will recognize him from their first meeting. The skull stares at him imploringly.

"I am a rose," he tells it "and a fool."

It listens, so he continues "My name, given to me by my mother the princess, is Sherlock. But I am in truth nothing more than a glorified Fae. I fancied to become a human and save John from that wretched war. Yet I failed to realize the length of time that it takes for a man to be fully grown. I was hardly more than a babe when it ended, five full summers later, and could only tend his wounds. And mother, I caused her grief. She feared me, I think. Why not, when I am a monster born of a bramble? A boy with a black rose on his head. She grew angry and cut it off; when I awoke I was locked in a tower, where I stayed for twelve years. I can only assume she thought me dead."

The skull sways in the breeze, ' _go on_ '.

"She died; I learned when John's wife found me. I fear I killed her with guilt. Mary's servant bewitched me, but I did not mind then, as I could still be with John. And look where that has gotten me. Finally human, free of roots and grown enough to protect him, yet I cannot." Sherlock grits his teeth "The servant girl wants his riches, she hides her spite in her smile. I swear on my life that her marriage to John will not come to pass."

The skull glints at him, and he has a second to look at it and wonder suspiciously if it's enchanted before his hat is suddenly gone from his head.

On instinct, Sherlock's hands fly to hide the rose, the action flinging the powdered spell into his face. He feels the tingle of magic and then hears a gasp from behind him.

"John," he doesn't need to look, he knows by the sound of the prince's foot falls as he steps around the bench. "Please give me a chance to explain-"

"You- you are-" John interrupts, batting his hands away from the rose and running his fingertips over it. Sherlock tenses - but no, he knows the touch, from the boy who tended the gardens so many years ago.

"John," he says intently. John starts and pulls his hand back "Sorry" he mumbles, dropping to kneel before Sherlock and resting his hands on the other's knees. "But how- why?" he asks.

"I intended to retrieve you." Sherlock replies. John laughs in bewildered exasperation.

"Of course you did. But you saved me, when I came back. It was you, wasn't it? My Step-sister's-"

"She carried me, yes, and was my mother. Your doctor was a fool; I only cured your infection."

"You were five!"

"Quite old enough for a rose."

"Ho-Sherlock!" John cries, thoroughly overwhelmed. He rests his forehead on Sherlock's thigh "You are impossible," he mutters.

Unsure, Sherlock rests a hand on John's head.

"She wants the throne." John says.

"Yes." Sherlock replies.

"You're certain."

"Yes."

"Because it could be bad, you know, if the prince listens to a fae and tosses out his fiancée. People will talk."

"I'm certain, John," Sherlock says, then "Does it bother you?"

"Yes it bloody bothers me! She used my grief to get me to let my guard down-"

"Not that." Sherlock interrupts "That I'm a fae."

"Oh" John says, stopping his tirade "No."

"...I see."

"...It bothered my step-sister."

"Quite."

"You were always my favorite rose."

Sherlock's hand stills, making him realize it had been moving. "You had a strange way of showing it."

"You never cooperated!" John insists, finally lifting his head.

"You were uncreative."

John splutters "I was the best rose gardener in the land!"

"You were" Sherlock agrees.

John stares at him for a long moment.

"I'll call the wedding off," he says finally.

Sherlock visibly relaxes "A good idea," he says as John reaches for his head.

"May I?" he asks. Sherlock nods and John threads his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, slipping them to where the rose connects to his scalp.

"Extraordinary," he breathes.

Their eyes lock in the next instant, Sherlock's blue boring into John's hazel for an indefinable stretch of time. John's hand tugs in his hair and Sherlock goes willingly towards him. Their lips brush together with the barest of force, sending a spark of electricity through Sherlock's body. Then John pulls away and seems to come back to himself.

"Right." He says. "Um."

Sherlock watches him intently.

"We should be getting back." John says, and stands. Sherlock stands with him, and catches John's hand in his own as they start off towards the castle.


End file.
